


Tying Rockets To Shoe Strings

by techieturnover



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon-Typical Depictions of Violence, Canon-Typical Homophobia, M/M, Semi Fix-It, as in i am eventually going to fix it but first i am going to smash it into teeny tiny bitty pieces, other characters and relationships to be added, teen!malex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28516710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/techieturnover/pseuds/techieturnover
Summary: On the night of the toolshed incident, Alex makes a decision. It changes everything.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 9
Kudos: 34





	Tying Rockets To Shoe Strings

**Author's Note:**

> Sure I could finish all my Black Sails wips or I could write an entirely self-indulgent fix-it hurt/comfort Malex fic and honestly who is going to stop me.
> 
> Title is from the Walking On Cars song 'Ship Goes Down'. I listened to a /ton/ of Walking on Cars while writing this so uhhhhhhh yeah.

“Michael!” 

The sound of Alex’s voice distracts him momentarily from the searing pain in his hand. When he had run out of the toolshed before, he had fully expected never to see Alex again. Now he sits shaking in his truck, pain lancing through his entire arm every time he breathes, and he thinks that if Alex looks at him with pity in his eyes he might actually break down.

But Alex is at his window now, and he can’t - he has to roll it down. It’s Alex. 

He doesn’t look though. If he looks-

“Jesus Christ! Michael your hand-” Alex’s voice cracks and Michael can’t take it.

“Yeah, I got into a little trouble today.” It comes out bitter, half his mind is focused on not crying from the shooting pain and the other half on not begging Alex to - he doesn’t even know. Alex takes a step back and Michael hates himself for it. 

“Michael.” Alex’s fingers come into view as they rest on the door of the truck and finally Michael can’t stop himself, he looks up to face whatever his fate will be on Alex’s face.

Alex looks like shit. 

His eyeliner is smudged and running in tear tracks down his face - and the fact that he hasn’t even bothered to clean it is maybe the clearest indication of his mental state. _“Armor”_ Alex had called it once. His hair and shirt are disheveled too, but what draws Michael’s attention are the finger marks darkening into bruises on his neck. 

Rage, white-hot and blinding flashes through him. He goes to instinctively clench his fists against the impulse to make things start flying. It’s a mistake. Flaring pain replaces the rage and he cries out, unable to stop the reaction. His hand is supremely fucked. 

“Here, let me-” Alex shifts and Michael realizes he’s holding a backpack. He can’t move - movement hurts but when Alex opens the door of the truck and gingerly pulls his arm into the light Michael lets him. The coolness of Alex’s fingers distracts him from the pain, a little bit. “Holy shit-” 

Michael closes his eyes. He doesn't need to see the mess his hand is to know it’s bad. 

“Michael you need to go to the hospital this-”

_“No.”_ He instinctively jerks back and another searing shot of pain runs through his arm and nearly doubles him over. He bangs his good fist against the steering wheel. The noise of the horn makes Alex jump. “No,” he repeats, quieter. “No hospitals.”

“Michael this is broken. _Badly._ You need-”

“No. Hospitals.” He can’t tell Alex why, and it’s yet another reminder of why this is such a bad idea. He thinks up a lie and hopes it sticks. “If I go to the hospital they’ll put me back in the system.” 

Alex’s face falls, but he seems to accept it. Michael hates the way his face scrunches with sadness and grief. 

“Can I help you bandage it properly at least?” 

Michael nods. It’s really all he can do, when Alex looks at him like that. Alex holds his gaze for a few seconds longer, and something clench in his chest at how much he loves Alex.

He loves Alex. 

Shit.

He hopes it doesn’t show on his face - this stupid realization of how fucked he is - when Alex finally looks away and starts rummaging through his backpack. Hebrings out bandages, splints, tubes of antibiotic cream. It looks like he might have raided the whole medical cabinet. 

Michael focuses on that, so he doesn’t have to focus on the one still buzzing around the back of his head.

He _loves Alex._

_Fuck, shit, fuck-_

“I’m gonna have to unwrap it.” It sounds like both a question and a warning. Alex meets his eyes again, briefly, and the thought flashes through Michael’s mind again. He nods quickly before looking back to his hand, trying to hide his face. 

Alex nods too, takes a breath like he’s steadying himself before starting to reveal the bloody, mangled mess of Michael’s hand.

Every gentle touch is agony, every little movement as Alex unties the bandana causes another flare of pain and Michael grips the steering wheel, wishing desperately he could take another drink of the nail polish remover that’s sitting in his glove box. 

Alex is completely focused on his hand, so Michael lets himself focus on Alex. It’s better than focusing on the near constant pain as his hand is probed, shifted, cleaned. But Alex’s touch is as gentle as can be, and he’s still beautiful. So fucking beautiful, even as messed up as he looks. 

“No one’s ever done that for me.” 

The words break Michael out of hit thoughts. Alex isn’t looking at him, but there is something in the way he’s holding his body that is vulnerable. Michael can’t deal with it - not with everything else.

“What, fucked your brains out?” 

Alex looks up at him with exasperation and anger but there must be something of his own cracks showing in his armor, because Alex’s expression softens when their eyes meet.

“No. Well-” Alex smiles shyly and briefly Michael feels like he’s on top of the world. “But no. Stood up to him for me.” 

Oh. 

And now he feels like an asshole. 

“He was hurting you.” He hadn’t even thought about it, at the time. What the consequences could be. All that had mattered was that Alex was being hurt. That Alex was in danger. “I couldn’t let him hurt you.” 

Alex’s mouth twitches, and he shakes his head. He looks down at Michael’s hand again and the breath he draws is shaky. “I wish you had. This-”

His voice sounds like he’s about to cry. Michael hates it.

“He was hurting you,” Michael repeats, harsher than he means to. The bruises forming on Alex’s neck are still visible, and it takes more self control than Michael thought he possessed not to go drop a house on Jesse Manes. 

Alex looks up at him, tears filling his eyes. “Thank you.” The words are barely more than a whisper. Michael desperately wants to kiss him. 

Alex works in silence to finish the bandage on his hand. When he’s done he whispers a quiet “There,” and Michael observes the new bandage. Each of his fingers is splinted, wrapped individually and then wrapped together. His hand feels secure and protected, and the pressure of the bandages and splints does at least a little to ease the pain. 

“How does that feel?” 

Michael nods. “Better.” He sounds surprised, but he doesn’t mean to. It’s just - Alex is here. Taking care of him. 

Alex stands up and Michael thinks seriously about pulling him in for a kiss, but suddenly a flash of - something - takes over his vision. For a moment there’s nothing in his head but _Isobel. Danger. Help._ When it passes he gasps, terror coursing through him.

“Michael?” Alex. Shit. 

“I have to go. I’ll- I can bring you back to- wherever I have to go.” 

“What? Michael I-.” 

Something in Alex’s voice stops him. He doesn’t have time but Alex-

“Where should I take you?”

“I can’t go home.” 

And it’s not that Michael disagrees with that, but the panic is still in the back of his mind and he can’t _not go_ but he also cannot bring Alex into whatever is happening.

“I’ll take you somewhere else. I can take you to the Ortecho’s?” 

“I-” Alex seems like he wants to say something. Anything. But he swallows, and nods. He goes around to the passenger seat and hops in. Michael barely waits for him to get his seatbelt on before he peels off towards the Crashdown. 

Alex stares at his backpack the whole way, and Michael thinks maybe he fucked up somehow. But Isobel is in danger and he can’t tell Alex the truth. Can’t lead him into more danger. 

He stops in front of the diner, throwing the truck in park for Alex to get out. Alex turns to say something, but as soon as Alex is clear of the wheels Michael slams the door and slams on the gas. He can’t risk Alex saying something that makes him stay. 

\----------

It isn’t until the car is burning - the smell of oil and gasoline and _flesh_ clogging the air that Michael thinks about Alex again. He doesn’t make it to the bushes before he becomes violently ill. 

Rosa is dead. Rosa Ortecho. And Alex is with her family. 

If he had tried, Michael doesn’t think this night could get any more messed up. And he’s pretty good at fucking things up. He feels numb, and sick, and weak. His whole body is pulsing with his heartbeat and his hand is throbbing with every beat. 

“Michael we have to get out of here.” A voice at his ear. Max. Fucking Max. Max doesn’t have any clue about anything, and okay, maybe he’s being dramatic but right now Michael just needs _something_ to lash out at. 

“Fuck off.”

“Michael-”

“I said fuck _off_ golden boy!” He pushes Max away with his good hand, falling on the elbow of his other arm with the force back. He welcomes the pain. Anything to not think about the shit show his life has become in just twelve hours. 

He gets up and stalks off towards his truck. He doesn’t want to be around Max right now. Can’t stand his freaking twin attachment to Isobel-

Michael stops, and looks back to where Isobel is still standing, staring at the burning car. Something in what he’d seen between her and Rosa - something wasn’t right. Something is so, so wrong. Isobel has her arms wrapped around herself and she looks so little like the confident sarcastic Issy that he knows that he turns around fully and goes back over to her. 

“Is?” 

“How could this happen, Michael?” 

The image of Isobel with her hand over Rosa Ortecho’s mouth - hand glowing is imprinted on the back of his eyelids. Of Rosa falling lifeless to the ground. Of what Isobel had looked like just after.

“I don’t know, Is, I-”

But Isobel cuts him off. She sounds as confused as he feels.

“How could you do this? You’ve never lost control like this before!”

Right. He swallows the bile that rises at this fucked up shitty situation. Lying to Isobel about being a fucking murderer. He looks down at his hand - the neat, crisp bandages so incongruous with his story of a bar fight. If Isobel was in her right mind his story probably wouldn’t hold water - not with Alex Manes’ careful first-aid-trained bandages hiding the damage. 

“I don’t know, Is. I-I blacked out. I lost control.” 

Isobel hugs herself tighter. The smoke from the car reaches them again, and Michael has to swallow hard to stop another upchuck. 

“I can’t believe this. I can’t-” Isobel starts moving then, pacing back and forth quickly. “I can’t do this. I can’t believe you-” She looks at Michael and she looks afraid. Michael is saved from whatever she is going to say when Max comes up to them.

“Isobel don’t be too hard on him.” Max meets his eyes over Isobel’s head. They practically scream _I’ll take care of this_ and Michael wants to punch him. Repeatedly.

He starts toward his truck again. Isobel will be fine. She has Max, after all.

“You two go home.” 

“Where are you going?” Isobel calls after him. He refrains from sniping back that he’s going to find more classmates to kill. Barely.

“Where I always go. None of your business.” 

He stalks off before either of them have a chance to respond. He’s doing a lot of that tonight. 

When he gets to his truck he starts it up, letting muscle memory take over as he drives to the Foster ranch. He puts his truck in park, shuts the lights out, and stares up at the stars through the dusty windshield. But he feels like he’s suffocating in the small truck cab. He can’t stop looking at the bandage on his hand. Can’t stop seeing Rosa Ortecho fall to the ground. He briefly considers slamming his hand against the window - at least the pain might stop the visions - but he stops an inch from the pane.

Instead he opens the door and goes to sit on the fence. The night is cool, and the air that fills his lungs is crisp. He looks up at the stars and something in him slots back into place. He has no idea which direction is his planet. No idea if he’s even facing home. But the idea that somewhere out there is a place where all this shit doesn’t matter is the only salve he has right now. 

Finally alone, with nothing else to distract him and no one to see him, Michael cries. Big, ugly tears that he knows will mean his face swells up and his nose runs as loud gasping sobs rack his entire body. But no one is coming for him. No one here, not tonight. So it doesn’t matter. He stays there, for a long time. He isn’t really even sure how long. Long enough that the tears stop coming. Long enough for a chill to settle in his bones. 

As always, no one comes. 

The stars that have always comforted him seem so very far away tonight, and he suddenly can’t stand it. Can’t stand looking up at them with nothing in between - can’t stand how easy it seems like it should be to reach out and find his family reaching back. 

He stumbles to the truck, intending to drain a bottle of acetone, climb in the truckbed and try to sleep. But something in the cab catches his eye.

Shit.

_Shit._

Alex’s backpack sits in the passenger seat, spilled over onto its side. He must have left it when Michael drove him to the diner. 

Michael stares at it, completely lost as to what to do. After tonight - after what happened in the desert he can’t imagine ever looking Liz Ortecho or Alex or any of them in the eye again. Everything is over. 

But Alex might need something from the backpack. It’s his school backpack, and it’s obviously stuffed to the brim. Maybe he can sneak it into his locker? Or leave it somewhere Alex will find it. 

Cautiously, he opens the door. He feels a little like the backpack might bite him - which is stupid because it’s a backpack. But he’s so exhausted and mostly, he just wants Alex here. He unzips the backpack, hoping it’s just filled with more first aid things, but it isn’t, and Michael curses softly. 

Inside is a laptop, Alex’s schoolbooks, notepads, photos and a change of clothes, jeans, a shirt, and a hoodie. It looks like Alex had taken things he’d need for an overnight.

_I can’t go home._

The words ring in Michael’s ears and something like fear settles inside his chest. He must be even more exhausted than he thinks he is. His brain shoots off possibilities of why Alex has all his things in a backpack. 

_Maybe he just didn’t empty it,_ he thinks desperately. 

He closes the backpack quickly, grabs the bottle of nail polish remover from the glovebox and slams the door to the truck. He can’t think about it. Can’t think about Alex’s backpack in his truck right now. Of where in the fuck Alex thought he might be going. Instead Michael climbs into the back, covering himself with the blankets. It’s cold tonight. 

He tries for a while to go to sleep. The ache in his hand keeps him up. And the chill in the air. He is deliberately not thinking about anything else. Not Rosa Ortecho. Not Isobel. Not the other bodies whose names he doesn’t know. 

He shivers again. It’s too fucking cold and he’d started leaving his extra sweaters at the toolshed so he can’t even put on an extra layer. He remembers the hoodie he’d seen in Alex’s bag. 

_No._

He dismisses the stupid, _stupid_ thought of wearing Alex’s clothes like a fucking lovestruck cheerleader. But it’s fucking cold. He kicks the side of the truck as he gets up. He opens the backpack again, pulling out the thick jacket. It’s a zip up, and Michael refuses to think about whether or not Alex meant it for him. It does make it easier to pull on over his hand, though. It’s soft and warm, but loose enough on him it won’t be uncomfortable to sleep in and, to his annoyance, it smells like Alex. 

He climbs back in the bed of the truck, absolutely not pulling the hoodie closer around himself as he settles down. It’s still cold, and the images of the night are still on his eyelids. His hand still aches. But the extra warmth finally lets him fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are absolutely loved, this is my first fic in the fandom so uhhhhhh HEY. I'm on tumblr [@im-the-punk-who](https://im-the-punk-who.tumblr.com/)!


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